Her hands moved up to her face. She tried to speak. No words came. She looked about, bewildered, and saw Wavery.

Queesal became aware she was not looking at him. “Tom . . . hello.”

Wavery stepped forward. “I’ve come to interrupt.”

Queesal chuckled uncomfortably. “I’ve been filling Mrs Riding in on our glamorous duties.”

Wavery held out a hand, “Thomas Wavery.”

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, not having properly heard. Wavery repeated his name and she said in reply, “Catharine Riding.” As she straightened up, the light from the doorway fell on her face. Her eyes were darkish green, a shade he had never seen before. They looked through him and beyond him, exploring the contours of his vacuum. They had been seeking protection and now they had found it. But the effect on Wavery was more than the knowledge of a person coming into shelter.

He looked at a paving stone a yard from her feet.

“She’s off to Arequipa, but,” Queesal went on, “I’ve been telling her to fear not.”

Abruptly, Wavery acted as if Queesal had disturbed them.

“The Ambassador’s looking for you, George.”

“Where –”

“He’s with Denver.”

Queesal excused himself.

Wavery said, “I don’t know if you’ve been here before.” He waved at the rock garden. “Rita’s achieved a miracle. And here of all places. It was nothing. Stones and rubbish, literally.”

She unfolded her arms, lifting them to her cheeks. She shook her head as if to clear it. “There,” she said. “Thank you.”

She was a woman again, in her early thirties. One hand fretted at her hair, as if spinning it. The other moved down her slender face, white, except for a constellation of three moles on her right cheek, and the tip of her nose, which the sun had reddened slightly.

He went on, “But I don’t suppose you’re interested in gardening.”

She gave a small laugh. “It’s what I would like to do all the time.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed again, with more confidence. She picked up her glass from the table. “I’m one of those dreadful specimens like Rita, an urban gardener. That’s probably why we get on.”

There was a hand-clap. Their hostess occupied the door. “Have they given you a sorbet? Now does everyone know who they are? Tom, have you looked at Catharine’s back to see who she is? Catharine? Tom?” She clapped again. “Remember, Yes or No answers only, girls and boys,” she said and passed into the house.

Catharine, half turning, said, “Do you want –”

“Don’t worry.”

“That’s a relief,” she said. “I don’t believe I could face a party game. You’re Bob Hope, by the way.” She turned her back towards him. “Who am I?”

Wavery told her.

“Jane Fonda! Rita is ridiculous.” She walked to a low brick wall supporting a flower bed. She needed to touch something. She bent back a small bush of orange-scarlet flowers. “Oh, she’s got one of these. Now I should remember this but I don’t.”